


untitled -3-

by decideophobia



Series: tumblr fics [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Innuendo, M/M, Pining, Safe Sane and Consensual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-23
Updated: 2017-04-23
Packaged: 2018-10-22 23:25:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10707342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/decideophobia/pseuds/decideophobia
Summary: Stiles is tapping away at his phone, but looks up to catch Derek’s eyes. He smiles, pushes the hair from of his forehead, looking just as devastating as he had last night, sweaty, fucked out, a lazy smile pulling at his lips.Derek’s so goddamnscrewed.





	untitled -3-

**(412): My one night stand from last night is currently mowing my lawn for me.**

Derek actually has to do a double take, shocked into surprised silence by Stiles standing in front of him.

“Did you forget something?” Derek asks cautiously.

Stiles’ eyes flit from his face to the phone he’s holding in his hand, up to the name tag by the doorbell, and then back to Derek’s face; eyes narrowing just a tad. 

“You’re Derek Hale?” Stiles asks, finally, surprise, and disbelief colouring his voice. He’s chewing on his bottom lip, teeth digging into the soft bow of it, and Derek gets hot all over only remembering what those lips felt like against his own. It distracts him momentarily from the fact that Stiles knows his full name, and seems surprised by it himself.

“Uh,” Derek says, very eloquently, “um, yeah, and y--”

The words die on his tongue, and suddenly, the name Stiles makes so much more sense. “You’re Mr. Stilinski?”

“Obviously,” Stiles answers, an amused smirk stretching across his face. He pockets his phone, and starts rocking back and forth on his feet, while Derek keeps staring at him in a way that probably suggests he’s either wildly turned on, or just about to murder him. Laura keeps saying that both expressions are almost the same on his face. 

Stiles clears his throat, rubs his hands together. “So, you gonna show me where your lawnmower is, or do I get directions?”

Derek feels inclined to parrot him, except he’s making a fool enough of himself as it is; he shouldn’t dig himself in any deeper. Least of all in front of the guy who’s made Derek come his brains out last night.

“Sure,” Derek says, and realizes it doesn’t answer anything. He counts backwards from three in his mind, takes a deep breath, and starts over. “I’ll show you.”

Stiles follows him silently as Derek leads the way to the little shed in his backyard where he keeps his lawnmower. He can feel his nose starting to itch halfway over. 

“Thanks,” Stiles says politely. Derek tries not to feel awkward, wrings his hands while searching for something to say; something funny, or witty; something that suggests he’s not a complete social failure, but his throat is itchy.

“I’m--” Derek jerks his head towards the house, and Stiles gives him a thumbs-up. Derek takes off feeling like a tool.

It doesn’t necessarily get better after that. Derek tries to be productive, get some work done, clean the kitchen maybe. Instead, he makes pancakes, half of which he almost burns, because he gets distracted watching Stiles from the window. 

Derek’s sheets still smell like him; had reminded Derek of last night just this morning when he woke up with his nose buried in one of the pillows, breathing in deep gulps of Stiles’ scent. It had made him groan; flash back to the feeling of Stiles’ lean body flush against Derek’s; had made him hard, and aching. Derek had jerked off the memory of them despite himself; fucking up into his own hand with Stiles’ needy, helpless sounds echoing in his ears. 

He isn’t quite sure if it’s appropriate to ogle somebody he’s fucked before, but who he doesn’t technically know. No matter how often Derek tells himself to stop being a creeper, his eyes keep wandering to the window, track Stiles’ easy movements as he mows the lawn. He didn’t expect to see Stiles again, at least not so soon, and definitely not as someone he’d pay to mow his lawn. 

When Stiles walks into the house after he’s finished, Derek goes out of his way to look inconspicuous, busy, not like he’s been making pancakes because the kitchen window gives him a perfect view of the backyard. 

Stiles is tapping away at his phone, but looks up to catch Derek’s eyes. He smiles, pushes the hair from of his forehead, looking just as devastating as he had last night, sweaty, fucked out, a lazy smile pulling at his lips.

Derek’s so goddamn _screwed_. 

“Pancakes?” he asks, because he’s an idiot, and Stiles is the reason. Except, Derek can’t even feel like a moron, because Stiles’ whole face lights up; and no, Derek’s not gonna break out poetry to describe how his smile looks. 

“Dude,” Stiles says; Derek can’t even find it in him to object to being _dude_ -ed. “Yes, thanks. You’re awesome.”

Stiles eats like this might be his last meal for a long time, and in doing so, he strongly resembles a hamster. Derek’s positively fascinated. Weirdly, strangely fascinated. 

“So,” Stiles starts, nudges around a piece of pancake on his plate. “How come you asked me to mow your lawn? From what I’ve experienced, you’re a hands-on kinda guy.” He sends a suggestive smirk Derek’s way.

Derek blinks at him, feeling heat creep up his neck, and he thought there’s a limit to how much he can embarrass himself, but apparently not. “Grass pollen allergy,” he finally answers. “I’m still doing the hyposensibilization, but for now, I’ve run out of meds, and I need to go see my doctor for more. And you probably don’t wanna know all that.”

Stiles smiles at him sweetly; says, “I don’t mind,” but it kind of sounds like, _Tell me more_. It might be Derek’s hopeful mind running crazy with different scenarios, though. 

Derek shrugs. “I like to put my hands on other things, though,” he says, and Stiles arches his eyebrows.

There’s a daring smirk curling at the corner of his mouth, the very same one he grinned at Derek last night when they were in the bedroom, and Stiles pushed the waistband of his jeans down his hips: slowly, fingers dragging against his skin. Derek had been transfixed, watching, aching.

“Things like what?” Stiles asks innocently, and puts the fork into his mouth; pulls it out slowly, drags it out between his lips, pursed; makes a show of it that Derek watches without being able to tear his eyes away. 

It distracts him momentarily from answering. “Like hammers,” Derek replies as soon as he catches himself, manages to keep his voice even, and his face blank. “I like nailing things.”

Stiles kinks an eyebrow. “Oh, a handyman. Do tell.” He takes a sip of his coffee, looking at Derek over the rim of the cup.

“I worked on a leaking rod once. Except it burst when I put my hands on it.”

“Did it drench you?”

“All down my front.”

“That sounds nasty.”

Derek smirks. “And it was over really fast.”

Stiles snorts, a gleeful little grin curling at the corner of his mouth as he puts his mug down, wraps his long fingers around it. “Guess you have to fix a lot of holes, too.”

“Yeah,” Derek nods, his skin growing hot again as he thinks back to last night: Stiles laid bare in front of him, legs splayed apart wide, and his flushed cock resting heavily against his abdomen, leaking. “Plug them up, slowly, with just the tip. Sometimes I have to go deeper than that, though.”

Stiles is biting his bottom lip, teeth digging into the soft flesh, just the same as last night, when he tried to trap the breathless gasps falling from his mouth. There’s a faint flush spreading deliciously across his cheeks. He takes a deep breath, exhales roughly, and Derek shifts on his chair a little, heat pooling in his stomach.

Stiles takes the last bite of his pancake, chews deliberately, like he’s trying to distract himself. 

When he catches Derek’s gaze, Derek says, “You got, um--” He gestures to his own mouth, and Stiles mimics the motion, but doesn’t get the drop of honey at the far end of his bottom lip. 

“You get it,” Stiles tells him, leaning across the table a little to give Derek better access.

Derek hesitates, his heartrate picking up a notch, stupidly. He reaches out nevertheless, touches his fingers to Stiles’ chin, gently, thumb dragging across the skin right under the bow of his lip. He flicks his eyes up from where he’s been watching his own hand to meet Stiles’ gaze. 

Stiles’ eyes are locked on his, golden rings of fire around dilated pupils, and there’s heat in this look, promise; and a need so raw it sends shocks right down to Derek’s core. The heat in his stomach persistently spreads through his entire body, makes his skin flush; the memory of Stiles arching his back, and grinding down harder on Derek’s dick making him burn with want from the inside out.

Stiles turns his head just so, lips parting barely enough for Derek’s thumb to slip into his mouth before he closes his lips around it. Derek inhales sharply as wet heat surrounds his digit, and Stiles sucks on it, eyes fluttering shut, like he’s enjoying this. It’s a heady sensation that leaves Derek craving for more. He balls his free hand into a fist, clenches his jaw while Stiles presses the flat of his tongue against Derek’s finger, licking, sucking away the honey.

Stiles works his mouth around Derek’s thumb with languid movements, lips sealed tightly around the skin, and takes it in deeper. His eyes are half-lidded, trained on Derek though, and Derek’s gaze flicks from where his finger is disappearing between Stiles’ lips, to his eyes. The way Stiles looks at him with hot, raw desire practically pouring from every inch of his body has Derek straining in his sweatpants in no time. Somehow, Stiles manages to push his buttons; buttons Derek didn’t know he had; buttons he’s pretty sure he didn’t even have before Stiles came along. It’s mortifying how easily Stiles gets him going.

His thumb pops free with a wet sound. Derek shudders slightly, every nerve alight with want, need; the overwhelming urge to splay Stiles out, and have his way with him. Stiles leans back in his chair, hand dropping to the inseam of his pants. He drags the pads of his fingers over his thigh as he curls his hand into a fist, breath coming out harshly. Derek swallows thickly, and Stiles’ lips curl into a lazy smirk; he runs the tip of this tongue over his upper lip, teasing, maddening.

It drives Derek right up the wall, the way Stiles moves, uses his body to tease. He knows what he’s doing, and what effect it has; had done it last night, too, and had watched Derek with a sweet grin on his face. Stiles slouches in his chair a little, knees falling apart, opening an inviting V between his legs. There’s a distinct bulge in his pants that makes Derek’s mouth water. He wonders how it’d feel in his hand, and if Stiles would fuck up into his fist; if he’d moan and writhe, or if he’d curl a hand around the back of Derek’s head, feed his cock between Derek’s lips, make him take it. 

Stiles had pushed Derek down on the bed last night with a sly twist of his mouth, trailed a long path of hot, wet kisses down Derek’s neck, his chest, his stomach; fingertips dancing over his skin, feather-light, drawing goosebumps in their wake. When Stiles’ lips first closed around the head of his dick, Derek had been sure he’d go off right then and there. Instead, he’d watched Stiles take more of him into his mouth, going down on Derek like nobody’s business, choked off sounds catching in his throat. And he’d looked beautiful like this: a flush high in his cheeks, hair sticking to his forehead, and his eyes closed in pleasure with dark lashes fanned out like wings across his pale skin. Derek choked on a moan when Stiles had flicked his eyes up, irises swallowed by the black of his pupils. He’d touched his fingers to Stiles’ jaw, his chin, thumb pressing softly at the corner of his mouth while Stiles worked his throat around Derek’s cock with a low groan. 

Derek’s mouth falls open when Stiles starts rubbing himself through his pants. The breath comes rushing out of his lungs in an audible wheeze, and Stiles’ smirk grow minimally wider, chin tipped down, looking up at Derek from under his lashes. Derek’s own dick is throbbing already, tenting the front of his sweatpants. 

He’s up before he knows it, rounding the kitchen table, and Stiles is pushing away this chair a little, turning himself towards Derek; the chair’s legs scraping over the floor. Derek sinks down, lets Stiles’ thighs bracket his shoulders. Their eyes lock for a moment.

“Let me,” Derek says, sounding strained to his own ears. Stiles’ hand falls away. Derek replaces it with his own.

Stiles tips his head back, the pale line of his neck looking tantalizing; perfect to sink your teeth into, leave a mark. He sighs softly while Derek rubs the bulge in his pants, his knees squeezing against Derek’s shoulders. Derek pushes back a little, fingers working Stiles’ pants open with sure motions, despite the impatience he feels building up in him; the excitement that leaves his heart trip. 

Stiles lifts up without Derek having to tell him, lets Derek pull his pants down until they’re stretched taut between his calves. Derek leans back to trace the ridge of Stiles’ hard cock in his underwear. He strokes down Stiles’ calf absentmindedly, bends forward until his mouth is hovering just so above the outline of Stiles’ dick, and breathes hot air over it. The shudder running through Stiles’ entire body ignites a deep sense of satisfaction within him. A choked off sound tumbles out of Stiles’ mouth when he closes his lips around the head for a second, and a curse when he lets go of it again. 

Derek smirks against the skin of his thigh, trails kisses down until his lips meet Stiles’ knee. He slides his hand down his right calf while he bites at the soft flesh on the inside of Stiles’ thigh, and pulls his leg free of the pants in one motion, so he can settle in closer and more comfortably in front of Stiles. 

Stiles is looking down at him now: red-bitten lips slightly parted, eyes dark, and a gorgeous flush high in his cheeks, and trailing all down his neck, disappearing under the collar of his shirt. Derek sits back a little, and stares up at him, rapt with the beauty of Stiles sitting in front of him like this; looking at Derek with a kind of warmth in his eyes that makes something inside him tingle. 

There’s a wet spot forming on Stiles’ boxers; something Derek notices with satisfaction. He rubs two fingers across it, and Stiles keens, bucking up into the touch with a bitten-off curse. Stiles’ hands slide into Derek’s hair, tangle in it easily, and he pushes Derek’s head into his lap with surprising strength. It sends a jolt down to his dick. Derek feels himself leaking through his own sweats.

He closes his lips around the crown of Stiles’ dick again, following the urgency of Stiles’ motions, and drags his tongue across the wet patch, sucking the taste out of it. Stiles’ fingers tighten in his hair for a moment, accompanied by a moan that shocks Derek right down to his core. The fabric dampens more between his lips, sticking wetly the outline of Stiles’ cock. He follows the line of the shaft with his mouth, sucking and licking, while Stiles keeps fisting his hands in Derek’s hair. 

“Fuck, Derek.”

Stiles sounds wrecked, breathless, and the way he says Derek’s name is music to his ears, making little sparks skip down his spine, pool low in his gut. 

“You gonna suck my dick now, or what?” Stiles asks, impatience ringing clear in his voice. 

Derek smirks up at him. “I thought that’s what I’ve been doing.”

Stiles rolls his eyes, fingers still tangled in Derek’s hair, rubbing tiny circles into his scalp, absentmindedly, as it seems, and it makes Derek feel more comfortable than he’d like to admit. 

“I guess I can move on to the real thing,” he says then, hooking his fingers in the waistband of Stiles’ boxers when Stiles lifts up one more time.

“You make it sound like I’m hiding a dick pad in my pants,” Stiles points out, smirking down at Derek with unabashed mirth dancing in his eyes. He pulls his right leg free of his underwear before he sits back again, spreading his knees a little wider, inviting Derek to come a little closer. 

The head of Stiles’ dick is wet from where it rubbed against its own precome, flushed and still dripping. He wraps a hand around Stiles’ cock, raveling at how the weight settles in his hand, how hot it is; how it makes Stiles’ let out this marvellous sounds that Derek takes in greedily, wishing to draw out more of those. Derek twists his hand around the head on an upstroke, and Stiles shudders out a breath, knuckles turning white where he’s now gripping the edges of the chair. The sudden, undeniable want to swallow Stiles down is almost overpowering: watching him come undone because of something Derek does. 

Except he can’t. He didn’t have a chance to buy new condoms yet. 

“Do you have--by any chance?”

Stiles manages to lift an inappropriately judgemental eyebrow at him. “You don’t?”

“Excuse me, you made us blow through the rest of my condom supply last night,” Derek says, sitting back. He didn’t even know he could go that often. “And I didn’t exactly have the chance to go out and stock up again.”

Stiles smirks wistfully, and way too smug. “Well, I’d say it was a team effort,” he concedes eventually. He reaches down to his pants and pulls his wallet out, searches through it until he finds a green foil, holding it out to Derek.

“How long has that been in there?” Derek asks, eyeing the rubber doubtfully.

“Since this morning,” Stiles answers with a roll of his eyes. “I had to break out my spare condom because you were out, remember?”

Derek takes the condom doing his best not to flush hot at the memory of last night, and the sheer amount of sex they had while Stiles keeps smirking at him unabashedly. He’s about to rip open the foil when his eyes fall upon the bold letters printed across it, marking it as a flavoured condom. This one in particular, ironically, is mint-flavoured. 

He looks up at Stiles with raised eyebrows.

“Don’t give me that, I’m a practical thinker,” Stiles says with a shrug and a shit-eating smirk. “It’s just like sucking on a mint.”

Stiles bursts out laughing at his own joke. Derek’s pretty sure if it was anyone else, he would’ve kicked them out already. Strangely enough, he finds himself pursing his lips trying not to smile. 

Stiles falls silent when Derek doesn’t move. He carefully cards a hand through Derek’s hair, face surprisingly serious when Derek looks back up at him.

“You don’t have to, you know,” he says. He cups Derek’s cheek, strokes his thumb under his eye. Derek leans into the touch, finding it to be oddly comforting and sweet, considering he’s still sitting between Stiles’ legs, on eye-level with his still hard dick. Yet, it doesn’t feel awkward or weird, and Derek’s not sure what it is about Stiles that makes feel everything about his feel natural, uncomplicated. 

“You underestimate how much I want to suck your dick,” Derek answers, opening the foil to pull the condom out. 

Stiles lets out a harsh breath, cursing quietly. He holds himself very still while Derek rolls the rubber on, only the sounds of his deep breaths and the slick noises of Derek working filling the silence. 

Derek wraps his lips around the head the second he’s done, both his and Stiles’ groans resounding in the kitchen in unison. 

It’s not ideal, the taste of latex rubber and artificial mint, but the way the weight of Stiles’ dick settles on his tongue, the heat he gives off, and the breathless sounds he makes, are definitely worth it. Stiles’ hands tangle in his hair again, spread out against his scalp.

He starts off by shallowly bobbing his head, never taking in much. His tongue teases at the head of Stiles’ cock, flicking against it in little twists that make Stiles’ feet slide across the floor. Derek falls into a rhythm of sucking and licking, spurred by the soft, broken noises that Stiles seemingly can’t help making. The sounds skitter down his spine, spread through his body like a heatwave, and Derek feels his own dick hard and heavy between his legs. 

Stiles keens when Derek sinks down lower, taking in as much as he can, until the tip of Stiles’ cock hits the back of his throat. He looks up to find Stiles staring down at him, eyes wide and dark as Derek slowly breathes through his nose. When he pulls back again, Stiles’ cups his face, thumbs running over the skin under Derek’s eyes, a comforting, and sort of praising touch that makes him shudder. 

Derek twirls his tongue around the shaft and hollows his cheeks, bearing down again, and Stiles’ eyes flutter shut, another moan falling from his mouth. He can’t think beyond this, beyond how good it feels to have Stiles’ dick in his mouth, how he is the one eliciting those sounds out of him. 

He presses the flat of his tongue against the underside of Stiles’ erection, sucks on the head. Stiles’ hand trails over his cheek, cups his jaw, thumb resting gently against the corner of Derek’s mouth.

“God, Derek,” he says breathlessly, awed. “So good.”

His fingers trace where Derek’s stretched around him, sending a jolt of pleasure through his body, all the way down to his cock. Derek reaches down, grips himself through his sweats. The fabric is soaked with his precome, sticky against the palm of his hand, but the contact, the pressure makes him moan around Stiles’ dick. 

Stiles runs his hand through Derek’s hair, gently pulls until Derek gives in and tips his head back; Stiles’ cock slipping it out. The tip rests heavily against his bottom lip still. Stiles pushes his hair out of Derek’s forehead, cheeks flushed, but smiling. 

“You’re doing so good,” he says quietly, and guides Derek back down, feeding his dick slowly past his lips.

Derek can’t stop the breathless whimpers from coming, they crawl up his throat and burst out: needy little sounds that would be embarrassing if Stiles wasn’t urging him on, answering with choked-off whines of his own. 

“Touch yourself.” Stiles’ voice sounds different: rougher, rawer, breaking out goosebumps along Derek’s skin. “Show me.”

Derek reaches down to push his pants down around his thighs, sucking in a harsh breath when the cool air hits the hot flesh of his dick. He can’t get a hand on himself fast enough, hissing past the cock in his mouth as soon as he wraps his fingers around the shaft.

“Yeah, c’mon,” Stiles says, breathy, and Derek makes another helpless noise, twisting his hand around his dick.

He isn’t going to last long, not with Stiles’ praise and the soft, bitten-off gasps he keeps making, not with his hands cradling Derek’s head, twisting in his hair. Derek knows how to get himself off fast, but it’s Stiles’ moans, his voice, his touch that push Derek closer to orgasm, have him barely holding on, teetering right at the edge. 

He keeps his lips locked tight around Stiles’ cock and uses his free hand to cradle his balls in his palm, rolling them between his fingers. Stiles bows his back, mouth open on a toneless sound, pushing in deeper. Derek tightens his grasp on his own dick, twists his hand, stripping furiously. There are ridiculous noises coming out of his throat, but he’s too turned on to care, too engrossed in making sure Stiles enjoys this.

Derek looks up again, catches Stiles’ eyes. Stiles sucks in a sharp breath, the black of his pupils ringed by a tiny sliver of a golden brown. His bottom lip is red and swollen; he’s probably worried it between his teeth, trying to keep the noises down. Derek prides himself on making him unable to keep quiet. 

He curls his hand around the base of Stiles’ cock, and sinks down, down, down; until the head hits the back of his throat, keeps his eyes on Stiles’ face the entire time. 

Stiles’ eyes flutter shut as his body seizes up, head tipping back to bare a long line of pale skin, groaning, “Fuck, Derek,” as he comes. Derek sucks him through the orgasm, feels his own washing over him at the sound of Stiles moaning his name. He vaguely registers coating his hand with his come, busy sucking at the tip of Stiles’ dick until his body relaxes again. 

Derek pulls back then, shifts his weight, suddenly feeling the numbness in his knees. His hand is covered in his own spunk, sticky and wet, dripping between his fingers; he resists the urge to wipe it on his pants. Stiles is sprawled on the chair, looking like he’s trying to find his bearings again. He’s all flushed: colour high in his cheeks, but spreading all the way down his neck, and disappears under his collar. 

Derek gets up, slides his clean hand through Stiles’ hair, and Stiles follows the motion, tipping his head back to look up at him. He’s open-mouthed, pliant: so fucking beautiful Derek doesn’t even know what to do except stare at him like he’s hung the moon. Eventually, he leans down, hand around the back of Stiles’ head, and kisses him. Stiles doesn’t react right away, like he needs a moment to catch up, but when he does, he reciprocates something fierce, drawing Derek into a far deeper kiss he initially went for. 

“I can’t believe you deprived me of your mad blowjob skills last night,” Stiles says when they break apart. “You just shattered my whole worldview.”

Derek smirks, shrugs. “Well, we didn’t have flavoured condoms last night.”

“Oh, I’ll be sure to bring more next time. Maybe some bacon flavoured ones,” Stiles muses, taps his fingers against his mouth. “You know, so you can suck on that meaty--”

“I prefer chicken curry, thanks.”

Derek smiles to himself, feels stupidly warm over Stiles talking about a next time. 

He washes his hands while Stiles gets rid of the condom. There’s a little restaurant on Maine where they serve the best pasta Derek’s ever eaten. It’s cozy, perfect for an unhurried date, probably also ensures that no unexpected sex happens. Not that Derek is opposed to sex, but he’d like to take his time to actually get to know Stiles, find out more about him: how he sounds when he laughs with his whole body, what topics make his eyes light up when he talks about them, what songs he shakes it off to. He could ask Laura for her tiramisu recipe, the one that brings tears to everyone’s eyes; woo Stiles with dessert.

“Shit!”

Stiles’ curse startles Derek out of his thoughts. He looks over, sees Stiles hurriedly fixing himself up again.

“What’s wrong?” Derek asks, a cold, heavy sense of dread slowly creeping up his spine. He takes a deep breath, counts to tree, and wills himself not to assume the worst right away.

Stiles flicks his eyes over Derek’s face, takes two steps to cross the distance between them. He curls a hand around Derek’s nape and draws him in for a quick, filthy kiss. When he draws back again, he captures Derek’s bottom lip between his teeth, nips at it, and lets go; a fleeting smile on his face.

“You made me lose track of time,” he answers, fingers rubbing through the shorts hairs on Derek’s neck. “I’m late for a thing with friends.”

The corners of Derek’s mouth tip up automatically, and he feels better again, dread dissipating as fast as it came. “Oh.”

Stiles smiles at him, before he leans in for another quick kiss. “Gotta go,” he says, presses his mouth to Derek’s again. “I’ll call you.”

With that he bounces out of the kitchen, throwing one last look over his shoulder before rounding the corner, disappearing out of sight. 

Derek’s still smiling when Stiles is long gone, touches his fingers to his mouth. His heart trips excitedly at the prospect of seeing Stiles again soon.

***

“I’m not moping.”

“You are the mopiest moper that has ever moped. It kinda hurts watching you.” Erica staples her fingers together, rests her chin on top of them, and looks at him with a pitiful expression. “You really like him, don’t you?”

“I don’t,” Derek answers through gritted teeth, repeating it for the tenth time at least, because Erica just doesn’t want to let this go. 

He was overzealous, probably read too much into what had happened between him and Stiles, and he eagerly waited for his call. It never came. Derek’s given up hope by now, realizing that Stiles used it as one of those empty phrases after a casual hook-up, no meaning, no promise behind it. Derek ate it up like sugar. Of course he did. It’s just something in his moron brain that latched onto the idea of Stiles, of the assumption that Stiles was just as interested in more than Derek was. 

“You keep saying that,” Erica points out, takes a sip of her coffee. Her eyes never leave his face. “And you always look like someone’s forcing you to kick a puppy when you do.”

“That’s because you keep making me talk about this.”

She bares her teeth at Derek, and he bares them in return.

“I keep making you talk about it, because I want you to work through your issues instead of living in a constant state of denial,” she says while she taps at her phone. “Just admit that you like him. You’ll feel better after, I promise.”

Erica puts her phone down on the table, looking back at him again with an expectant gleam in her eyes.

“Fine. I liked how he mowed my lawn.”

She raises one perfectly groomed eyebrow.

“He mowed my lawn real good,” Derek continues. “And you know how much I hate strangers mowing my lawn. They never get it right.”

Erica purses her lips, draws her bottom lip between her teeth. “Oh, yeah.”

“Usually, they don’t even know how to handle my lawn mower. Stiles managed all that effortlessly. I didn’t even have to give him pointers.”

Erica makes a noise, covers her mouth with her hand, shoulders shaking. It takes a moment for Derek to realize she’s trying to hold back laughter which turns out to be a futile attempt. Little, helpless giggles make it past her hand. Her whole body shakes with laughter as soon as she lets go. 

“I bet he did,” she wheezes, collapsing on the table in another fit of laughter. She wipes away tears when she sits up straight again, sniffs a little, taking a deep breath to calm herself.

Derek watches her quietly, long since gotten used to her spontaneous fits. He waits for Erica to calm down, patient, and taps his fingers against the table top. Still, there’s frustration bubbling right under his skin, as it always does when she doesn’t take him seriously. 

Erica reaches across the table, curls her fingers around his and squeezes in sympathy. She takes her phone, taps at it, before she puts it in the middle between them. Derek hears himself talking, the recording replaying what he just told her, while Erica clamps another hand over her mouth again.

“ _Usually, they don’t even know how to handle my lawn mower_ ,” his tinny voice says, and Derek--

Derek groans.

“That wasn’t a euphemism,” he gripes, hitting the stop button on her phone. 

Erica smirks at him. “It wasn’t?”

Derek crosses his arms over his chest, scowling at her. “No.”

She doesn’t answer, just lifts her brows in response, eyes boring into his as if she’s trying to lay him bare to the core.

“It wasn’t,” Derek reiterates. “But if it was, it’d be true.”

Erica sighs, deep, as she splays her hands out, palms up. Derek puts his hands in hers reluctantly, lets her squeeze them gently. Her features have softened, an encouraging, small smile turning the corners of her mouth upward. She doesn’t say anything, just keeps holding his hands, looking at him with an understanding in her eyes that makes Derek’s throat clog up. 

“Maybe you should call him,” she says after several moments of companionable silence.

“I don’t--”

Erica squeezes his fingers, hard. “Derek.” Her tone is stern. “I think I’ve made you watch enough rom-coms for you to know that communication is everything.”

“I think he already communicated loud and clear,” he mutters, looking down at their joined hands. 

She sighs again, ducks her head to catch his eyes. “It’s only been a week,” she points out. “Do you wanna know what I think?”

“What?”

“I think he’s telling himself to let some time pass before he calls you, because he thinks you’ll think he’s too eager, too clingy if he calls too soon.”

“I wouldn’t.”

Erica rolls her eyes. “Yeah, but boys are stupid.”

Derek’s about to argue with that, but then just lets it be. She’s probably right. He slouches, pulling his hands free of her grasp; scrubs a hand over his face.

“Besides, there’s no rule that says you can’t call first. You have his number, after all,” she supplies.

Well. Derek can’t deny that.

***

Derek’s sitting in the kitchen staring at his phone. His legs jiggles with nerves, knocking against the underside of the table. He’s promised Erica he’d call Stiles, or else she threatened she’d put the recording of him on Facebook. As far as her threats go, this one’s idle, and even though Derek’s long figured out the difference between her idle and serious threats, they still manage to make him scramble to comply. 

He takes his phone and pulls up Stiles’ phone number. This isn’t weird. Calling him. It’s not weird. 

Derek’s playing different potential scenarios through in his head when the doorbell rings. He heaves himself off the chair, still contemplating on the way to the door. None of the things he comes up with end good, but he takes a steadying breath. 

He thought Stiles regretting having sex with him that day in the kitchen. That was the first thing Derek thought when Stiles had cursed, and it turned out to be wrong. No jumping to conclusions, he reminds himself. He’ll call Stiles. After he answers the door.

Derek’s greeted by a flustered Stiles as soon as he swings the door open: his hair sticks every which way, his cheeks flushed, and a bashful smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Derek wants to _eat_ him.

“Hi,” Stiles says, sheepishly look up at Derek. 

Derek stares at him, dumbfounded. “Hey.”

Stiles thrusts a plate covered in saran wrap at him. “I brought pancakes.”

“Okay.” Derek’s a little slow on the uptake, trying to understand what exactly is happening while his heart goes into overdrive. Stiles is here. Stiles came. 

Except, Stiles shuffles around on the spot, obviously uncomfortable. “Apology pancakes,” he eventually admits, eyes flicking up again to look at Derek. 

“Apology pancakes.” 

God, he’s a fucking parrot, holy shit. 

“Yeah.” Stiles scrubs a hand through his hair, a frustrated expression crossing his face. “I--my moron self accidentally deleted the text with your number, so I couldn’t call--and then I hoped you would call--you didn’t, obviously.” He laughs nervously. “And I thought I’d screwed up, ‘cause a week passed and--nothing, so I thought--I want to make it up to you.”

Derek can barely speak past his heart beating in his throat. “I was about to call you,” is what he manages eventually.

Stiles’ face lights up like a Christmas tree. An entirely blinding smile spreads over his face, radiating so much relief and happiness Derek feels like bouncing on his feet. Stiles practically falls against him, balances the plate on one of his hands, and plants a kiss on Derek’s mouth like he’s been dying to do so. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t call,” he says, pulling back.

“It’s okay,” Derek answers as he takes the plate, motions for Stiles to follow him back into the kitchen. “You said you’d make it up.”

He places the plate on the counter and turns back around to Stiles who’s smirking at him, the dirtiest smirk Derek has ever seen on a person’s face.

“I will,” Stiles promises. He holds up two condom packages. “I couldn’t find chicken curry, but I brought chicken, and curry.”

Derek’s never been more turned on in his entire life.


End file.
